


Wide Awake

by plumeria47



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: Bucky is happiest when he wakes up with Steve in his arms.Going nearly seventy years without itsucked.(Or: What if Bucky was rescued first, and was there when Steve came out of the ice?)





	Wide Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkhorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/gifts).



> Darkhorse, this ended up being a bit angstier than I initially intended, and for that I apologize. Hope the ending makes up for it?
> 
> The dialogue in Azzano comes directly from _CA: The First Avenger_ and does not belong to me.
> 
> Fic title comes from Katy Perry's [Wide Awake](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/katyperry/wideawake.html). I realize that's more of a breakup song, but I've often felt the lyrics could apply (in a non-breakup way) to Steve and Bucky and what they've endured in their relationship over the years. *looks shifty* Uh, yeah, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

**April 20, 1940**

Bucky woke up to the unfamiliar – but not unwelcome – feel of one Steve Rogers curled up in his arms. He and Steve had shared beds before, especially as kids, but also during rough periods where the shitty radiator couldn't keep up with the New York winters, and it was either share body heat or freeze to death. But they'd always been careful to leave just enough space between them.

Not anymore. Bucky's arms tightened involuntarily around Steve's slender ribcage at the very thought, determined that they wouldn't sleep separately ever again if he had anything to say about it. Okay, he might occasionally have to make time with some dame to keep up his rep, but it wouldn't _mean_ anything. Steve did.

And last night…. Damn. For all that he'd spent years - _years_ \- fantasizing about what it might be like to kiss those full lips, to allow himself to really look at all the private hollows of Steve's body, to wrap his hand around that perfect dick, the reality truly blew him away. Steve had always been a spitfire, but apparently that carried over to the sack, too, reacting with barely-muffled moans at Bucky's lightest touch, giving as good as he got. And speaking of giving - for all his lack of experience, Steve gave a damn fine blowjob. Bucky's dick twitched at the memory.

Steve shifted slightly in Bucky's arms, took a sudden deep breath, and opened his eyes. Bucky's own breath caught as he took in the blue of a summer sky, and he wondered if it was possible to love Steve any more than he already did.

"You okay there, Buck?" Steve's eyes flickered back and forth a little, taking in Bucky's entire face. Like he was looking for something. Bucky understood the feeling immediately. It was one thing to act like a lovesick sap while Steve was asleep, but if he didn't feel the same way….

"I'm good if you are," he said, lightly tracing his hand across Steve's warm stomach, brushing the top of the line of hair that he knew lead to wonderful, dangerous places. 

Thankfully, Steve could apparently see what Bucky was too goddamn skittish to put into actual words. He curled one slim-fingered hand around Bucky's, and his smile could have lit up Manhattan. "Best morning of my life," he said.

Bucky felt his own face stretch into a grin he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. He bent to kiss Steve, soft and slow, and hell with morning breath.

"Me, too, punk," he whispered against Steve's lips.

"Jerk," Steve replied fondly, pulling him down for another kiss.

 

**August 9, 1943**

"Bucky?"

With difficulty, Bucky focused on the face hovering over him. It … looked like Steve. It _sounded_ like Steve. But something was off.

Not-Steve was hastily pulling apart the straps holding Bucky to the table, and helping him stand. Bucky wobbled a moment, but a large hand clapped him on the shoulder, steadying him.

"I thought you were dead," Steve said because, goddamn it, it _was_ Steve. Even above the scent of sweat and dirt and war, the person in front of him smelled exactly like Steve, and Bucky should know. Was he hallucinating?

"I thought you were smaller," was the only thing he could think to say. If he was hallucinating, he wasn't sure he wanted to wake up. Seeing Steve again was making his heart hurt and, as they stumbled out of the lab he clung to Steve's side as much for reassurance as for physical support. Freakish transformation or no, his Stevie is here - his nightmare is over.

 

**February 19, 1945**

When Bucky woke – or, rather, came to – the only thing he was really aware of was searing, unbelievable agony. It felt like someone pulling his fingers right off his left hand, so he was shocked when he looked down and realized he no longer _had_ a left hand. Just a bloody stump ending midway between his shoulder and where his elbow should have been. The sleeve of his coat was correspondingly missing, too, so there was nothing to hide the harsh reality of the piece of meat that used to be his left arm. 

It was only when he gasped a little in pain that he became aware of other injuries. His back ached something fierce, his ankle seemed to be twisted at an odd angle and he knew he was experiencing some of what Steve must have suffered in his old body. Every breath was causing a fresh wave of pain, muscles and bones all protesting the action. _Broken ribs_ , he thought, absently. Although it felt more like he had … _formerly_ broken ribs, rather than _still_ broken ones. He remembered a boxing match he'd lost rather spectacularly shortly before the war, and how much his ribs had hurt then. He hadn't been able to cough or sneeze – or laugh – without wishing immediately for death – for weeks, and sex with Steve had taken some creativity, as well. As his ribs had healed, however, he felt more like he did now – breathing hurt, but not at suicide-inducing levels. For once, Bucky was grateful for whatever Hydra had done to him – he knew he healed faster, but if he was already recovering from broken ribs, that was pretty damn fast. And speaking of ribs….

Bucky tried to remember how he got his injuries and why he was being dragged none-too-gently across the snow – he wondered now if he had a concussion, too, because it seemed to have taken him a long time to work up to this question – rather than being carried in a stretcher, like field medics normally used. The only things he could see all around him were tall, snowy mountains, stretching as far up and around as he could see. And that's when it hit him. The Alps. The Train. _The Fall._

"Steve?" He started thrashing against the grip on his coat collar, ignoring the fresh waves of pain from all sources, but his anonymous rescuer held on tight. _"Steve?"_ Where was Steve? The rest of the Commandos? Were they safe? It was all he could think about now.

There was a voice speaking above him, sounded Russian, although Bucky wasn't entirely sure. He'd heard Mr. Blaski speak Polish at the delicatessen often enough, and this didn't sound quite the same. Hope leapt briefly into Bucky's throat – the Soviets were on their side, after all. "" he tried, struggling to remember the few phrases he'd learned from Mr. Blaski over the years. He knew it wasn't the same language, but he also hoped it was close enough that the other man might understand his request for help. Enough that he could get back to Steve, pronto. No response, other than a brief glance in his direction, as far as Bucky could tell, anyway, given that he was trying to twist his neck backwards and upside down in order to see who was doggedly dragging him along.

He licked chilled lips and tried again. "" Ok, it wasn't exactly "home" he needed to get back to (although, unofficially, "home" was anyplace Steve was), but it wasn't like Mr. Blaski had taught him to say "army base." 

""

Bucky's tenuous grasp of hope died as quickly as it had come. He had no idea what else the man had said, but "Nyet" was pretty damn clear. _No._ He had no idea why someone who was supposedly an ally was refusing to let him go – in fact, hadn't even stopped to check on his injuries since he'd woken up, which should have been a tip-off right there, he now realized – but he was quickly coming to realize that he's in deep shit. Well, there was no way he would go quietly, that's for damn sure.

Lashing out his right hand, he grabbed the leg of his captor as it came within reach on the next stride. It had the desired effect: the man stumbled, falling face-first into the snow, and Bucky wasted no time twisting out of his stunned grip and leaping to his feet. His ankle wobbled in protest and his vision abruptly dimmed from lack of oxygen. In the crucial moment it took for his depleted blood levels to recover and clear his head, the Soviet soldier regained his footing and was pointing his rifle at Bucky's head. 

Bucky immediately raised his hands – hand – in surrender. Didn't mean he'd given up, only that he wasn't stupid enough to make another move right this second. More Russian was flung at him without Bucky understanding a word, but it sure didn't sound friendly. Then, without further ado, the Soviet swung his arm and cold-cocked Bucky in the temple with the side of his weapon.

Bucky felt intense pain blast through his head, and then nothing.

**October 10, 1987**

The Asset woke as he usually did: his cryochamber had just been thawed and, therefore, so had he. He knew he had only a few moments before They would haul him out and read him the words that turned his own mind against him. He tried, as he always did, to review his own memories, because he never knew when they might wipe him. Most of the time, this was a painful exercise, because nearly all his memories were of the targets he'd eliminated. He hated that when those words were spoken, he would no longer care about the death he'd spread throughout the world. Once their effects wore off, however, he definitely cared. A lot. But he also knew that reacting would only bring pain – it was the way his handlers punished him and so he had long ago learned to suppress his reactions. 

In these brief, quiet moments, however, he could think freely, remember freely. Every now and then, he got a brief hint of something that must have happened in his prior life, although he no longer remembered what these flashes referred to. But every now and then, he remembered … a man. At least, he _thought_ it was just one man. He sometimes got a mental picture of a small thin man, and sometimes a tall, well-muscled man, but they seemed to have the same hair, same face. The Asset wasn't sure why he remembered them – or him, since he seemed to have this crazy idea that they were the same person despite the physical differences – but he assumed this man must have been important to him. The brief mental glimpses made him happy, even though he didn't know why. 

Today, his memories only brought forth images of his recent kills, and then his brief moment was over – he was hauled bodily out of his cryochamber and the dreaded red book was brought out. The Asset was resigned, but in the moments before his mind went blank, he clung to the idea of the unknown man. He would survive this mission and live to have another chance to examine his memories.

 

**January 13, 1994**

"You're all done, Sergeant. Time to wake up."

Bucky blearily blinked his eyes open to see the doctor leaning over him, smiling in his relaxed way. Right – the arm. He tipped his head so he could see his left hand and flexed his metal fingers, appreciating the tune-up he'd just received. His arm was generally self-sustaining – whatever hell the Russians and Hydra had put him through, they knew their technology – but a re-lube and some minor adjustments now and then never hurt. Sometimes they could do it while he watched but this time they'd wanted to adjust how it was sitting on his shoulder, so they'd knocked him out. Bucky had protested that he'd endured far worse pain over the past fifty years, but the doctor had overruled him. Bucky shrugged mentally; it was over now, no sense in reliving the argument. Besides, he had to admit that even though he _could_ have endured the pain, it was actually pretty nice not to have to. 

He tried rolling his shoulder and was pleased that, sure enough, it seemed to meld with his real muscles better than it had for awhile. He'd heard rumor that Stark's kid was working on a new prototype that might fit even better and be lighter, faster but he' was still tinkering with it. Bucky hadn't yet met Tony; to be honest, he wasn't sure he was ready to. It would be tough not to throw himself on the kid's mercy, but he also wasn't sure he wanted to see the loathing that would follow any confessions. He saw enough loathing every time he looked in the mirror. 

But. That was a topic for another day with his therapist. Heh. Everyone today was so into _therapy_. In his day, they'd have sneeringly called such people shrinks, and it wasn't so great to have to confess that you needed one. But nobody in this day and age seemed to think twice about Bucky spending regular amounts of time with one and, he had to admit, it definitely helped. Getting the official programming out of his head had been one thing; getting used to living in the world again had been an entirely different matter.

As soon as he was allowed, Bucky was off the narrow medical bed, throwing on his jeans, t-shirt and sweater, pulling his coat and scarf off the hook, and venturing back out into the brilliant New York winter. It was a gorgeous day, the sort that would probably have sent Steve scurrying for a pencil so he could sketch the snow-topped trees and little kissing gates that fronted most of the homes in this particular neighborhood. _Steve._ Bucky'd been back in New York and free of Hydra's clutches for over a year now – SHIELD got him out thanks to the fall of the Iron Curtain – and it still hurt not to have Steve here by his side. Once he'd fully come back to himself, he'd expected to find Steve an old man, maybe, or possibly a middle-aged man, given that nobody knew exactly what that serum was doing to his aging process. But not … gone. Buried beneath the Arctic ice just days after Bucky had fallen off the train. Bucky vacillated between grief for the loss of his friend, his love, his fucking _life_ , and fury that Steve, most likely suffering the same grief Bucky was now experiencing, had essentially committed suicide. Oh, sure, he'd saved the country and, make no mistake, Bucky wasn't sorry about that. But still, of all the pig-headed things to do….

Bucky paused a moment, took a deep breath, surreptitiously wiped his eyes with the edge of his scarf, and continued on his way. He had a lunch date to keep with a certain British septuagenarian.

 

**September 12, 2001**

Bucky woke from his doze with a jerk. He was lying on the soot-covered bench where he'd collapsed in absolute exhaustion. Dammit – he hadn't meant to actually _sleep_ , just rest for a moment. There were still people he could be rescuing, people he could be saving. 

All around him he saw cops and fire departments and ordinary citizens digging through rubble, using dogs, using their hands. Bucky had joined them, knowing his serum-enhanced strength and bionic arm would be able to move a lot more debris than the average person could manage. Already he'd been able to free more than a dozen people. And, unfortunately, he'd uncovered far more than that: people, sometimes only bits of people, who could no longer feel any pain or fear or anything at all. 

Bucky wasn't Steve. He didn't have that same pureness of heart that Steve had had. But a lifetime – a lifetime ago – with his blond spitfire had obviously rubbed off on him, and Bucky would be damned if he'd let his fellow New Yorkers down. 

He stood, shook himself out, and headed back into the twisted wreckage of the World Trade Center.

**April 21, 2011**

"Hello?"

"Sergeant Barnes, just the man I wanted." Even without Caller ID, Bucky would have instantly recognized Nick Fury's drawl anywhere.

"Good thing, seeing as nobody else should be answering my cell phone," he said, dryly. 

"Good thing, seeing as I fought some high and mighty government smart-asses for your right to get this phone call."

Bucky frowned. "What? Why?"

"We've found him."

 

**April 23, 2011**

Bucky sat by Steve's bed in SHIELD medical facility, the fingers of his right hand clasped around Steve's left one. _Steve._ God, he still couldn't believe it. Not only had they finally found Steve and pulled him out of the ice, they'd discovered that Captain America was even more indestructible than anyone had thought possible: the man was still alive. Bucky's fingers tightened involuntarily as his throat choked up – again – at the magnitude of that miracle. For someone who used to teeter on the brink of death when faced with an ordinary three-month winter, now apparently he couldn't be killed by smashing into the earth at top speed and then being buried in ice for nearly seventy fucking _years_. Bucky had been watching, breathless, grief-stricken, on the other side of the observation window as they had hoisted Steve's frost-covered body onto an examining table, and had nearly punched his way into the room when the medical team had pronounced him alive, so great was his need to scoop Steve up into his arms and hold him tight.

But he'd had to wait. Even now, all he could do, all he had been doing, was hold Steve's hand, watch him breathe, and wait for him to wake. He'd been allowed to help strip him out of the uniform that had protected him for so, so long and push his unresponsive limbs into clean, dry clothes – no humiliating open-butt hospital gowns for Captain America! – but that had been more than a day ago, and he had spent every subsequent moment at Steve's bedside. Who knew Hydra's inhuman treatment would serve him so well now? Bucky could easily go more than a day without food, sleep or bathroom breaks. Not fun, but manageable.

A brush of a thumb along the underside of his wrist jerked him out of his thoughts. Steve's eyelids were fluttering, his hand shifting under Bucky's as he fought against the 66-year pull of sleep. He took a deeper breath, and then another.

Bucky didn't dare breathe at all.

Blue eyes, the most beautiful thing Bucky had ever seen in his life, blinked open and immediately focused on him.

"Buck?" Steve whispered. He coughed a little, then cleared his throat. "Am I … is this heaven?"

Bucky choked back a watery laugh. "No, Stevie. We're still stuck on earth - apparently Satan didn't want either of us and threw us back."

"Don't joke about that," Steve admonished, his voice now considerably steadier. He turned his head a little, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. "Where are we, then?" 

"New York medical facility for the SSR – they call it SHIELD now."

Steve frowned a little. "'Now'?"

"Yeah." Bucky bit his lip, uncertain how Steve would take this next bit. At least _he'd_ been awake on and off through the decades, enough to recognize the passage of time. "It's, uh, the year 2011." 

Steve bolted upright. _"What?"_

Bucky put out his left hand to Steve's chest. "Easy there, slugger. I know it sounds fuckin' impossible, but it's true."

Steve's eyes got impossibly wider as he glanced down at the metal palm pushing lightly against his shirt. "Buck," he asked carefully, "what happened to your hand?"

 _Oh, shit._ Bucky was wearing a long-sleeve shirt but hadn't thought about the hand – although Steve would likely have thought it just as weird to see him in gloves indoors.

Bucky pulled back slightly and flexed his metal fingers as if considering them, watching as Steve's eyes followed the motion. "You sure you wanna hear that story just now?" he murmured. "It's not … it's not the greatest."

Steve reached up and wrapped a reassuring hand around the metal wrist, looking earnestly into Bucky's face. "Of course I want to know, Buck. It's _you._. I'm guessing," he went on, after a moment's pause, "that you lost your arm when you fell?"

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, but there's a lot more to it than that."

"How the heck did you survive the fall? Wait – don't answer yet." Steve scooted over on the bed, tugging Bucky – whose wrist he was still holding – along with him. "Come up here before you tell me. I feel weird being on a bed and you just sittin' there."

"Sure, pal, anything you like," Bucky said with a little laugh, climbing up and squeezing onto the narrow space. "You know," he added, settling in, hip to hip with Steve, "this worked a lot better when you were smaller."

"Yeah, well, we made it work after I got bigger, didn't we? The army wasn't exactly known for providing luxury sleeping accommodations," Steve replied with a fond smile. Then it faded. "Is … is that still okay to … I mean—"

Bucky leaned forward and sealed his lips over Steve's. It was just a light kiss, nothing more, but it was almost enough to make him weep with the sense of _home_. Just the feel of those soft lips, the undeniable taste of _Steve_ , of rightness, sang along Bucky's nerves like nothing else had in nearly seventy years. "Does that answer your question, pal?" he murmured when they parted.

Steve's eyes fluttered back open. "Yeah," he breathed. "It does."

"Good." Bucky couldn't help the grin he felt splitting his face. Even from that gentle kiss, he could see the flush rising on Steve's pale features, the way his breathing had hitched a little as Bucky looked at him. "And I'd better start talking," he said, shifting slightly to relieve suddenly snug jeans, "or I'm going to have to kiss you again, and even if you did just wake up from the near-dead, I'm not sure I'd have the power to stop next time."

Steve laughed. "You always did love the risk of getting caught," he said, with a fond roll of his eyes. "But, you jerk, you said this was a _medical facility_. I'm not doin' anything with other people around."

Bucky shrugged a little. "Homosexuality is pretty well tolerated these days, at least here in New York."

"Really?" Steve said, blinking in surprise. "That's … that's pretty amazing, actually. But still," he added in mock sternness, "I'm not makin' time with you here in a _hospital._ "

"Yes, Cap," Bucky said with a little salute. But he scooted in a little closer to Steve and leaned back against Steve's shoulder. It had been a long couple of days, and he was still in disbelief that he _could_ lean up against Steve again, touch him, talk to him. And speaking of talking…. "So, if you really wanna know what happened after the train," he began.

"I do," Steve said firmly, tightening his arm around Bucky. 

"Well, I was knocked out cold by the fall, of course, and came to only when someone started dragging me across the snow…."

Steve rested his head atop Bucky's and listened to him talk and talk, until Bucky's throat ran dry and exhaustion finally caught up with him. As he drifted off, he heard Steve murmur, "It's all right, Buck. I'll be here when you wake up. A hand brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. "I'll be with you for as long as you'll have me."

"Guess you're stuck with me forever, punk. Til the end of the line, 'member?" Bucky mumbled.

"I remember. Wouldn't want it any other way." Steve pressed a soft kiss into his hair. "Love you."

"You, too," Bucky managed, and then he was gone, drifting away in a cocoon of warmth and comfort.

 

**February 7, 2019**

Bucky wakes to the feel of one Steve Rogers curled up in his arms. Exactly as he had done, every single morning for nearly eight years. Early morning sunlight peeks through a gap in the curtains, catching on the bright glint of their rings.

He was never letting go, ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken some liberties with the dates, although I feel like the years are at least correct/reasonable. If there's a canon-specific _exact_ date I've gotten wrong, please let me know. And apologies if I botched the Polish. >_<
> 
> The author loves to wake up to feedback! Please leave a comment; polite concrit is fine, too. :-)


End file.
